


I’ve always liked (To play with fire)

by LiesAreInTheBlood



Series: The Wars We Try to Fight Alone [7]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Ghostbur, L’manberg, Minor Characters Tommy and Tubbo, Other, Phil has wings, The explosion, Wilbur likes Vivaldi, everything is fine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:40:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27862457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiesAreInTheBlood/pseuds/LiesAreInTheBlood
Summary: Wilbur doesn’t have a plan for the first time in his life. It kind of goes to hell.Written as a tribute to Alivebur, and everything he did for the Dream SMP. He’s the reason that all of us are doing this.
Relationships: Wilbur Soot & Phil Watson
Series: The Wars We Try to Fight Alone [7]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2042191
Comments: 4
Kudos: 39





	I’ve always liked (To play with fire)

**Author's Note:**

> Title is from Play With Fire(Sam Tinnesz)
> 
> This is purely for entertainment. I really don’t want to see people pushing myself or other creators because they don’t like what’s written. And if Wilbur or Phil changes their stance on fanfics, I will remove this.  
> Please be respectful.
> 
> Otherwise— just enjoy!
> 
> The song he’s listening to is here: [Winter— Vivaldi Four Seasons](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_5_Ys9omOW0)

_ 1 _

_ 2 _

_ 3 _

They’ve won.

Wilbur smiles from his place at the podium, hands clasped against dark stone.

He tries to ignore the silent screaming of  _wrong, wrong, wrong!_

_1_

The soldiers are standing.

They’re all beaming, relieved and tired, though they’d never admit it out loud. They’re all silent as Tubbo takes his place, as Tommy steps down.

Wilbur lets out a small sigh. He will be a better president than Wilbur could have ever been.

Than he ever  _was_ .

And Wilbur starts off towards the back hills, trying to ignore the sharp, loud, breathless anticipation in his chest.

_2_

It’s Vivaldi.

He’s flipping through a hastily made playlist, gifted by— Dream, actually.

The man handed him the TNT, a phone nestles between explosives. Said,  _A little something for inspiration. Drugs just don’t do it anymore, do they?_ He smirked like it was a cutting inside joke, and left him with brand-new earbuds.

He fits them snug against his head now, and pulls on the beanie— he already feels like himself, again.

He lands on Winter. Four Seasons, with the dips and notes resonating in his mind.

It’s making him dizzy.

_3_

The end is near.

It’s a sweeping crescendo before the concerto finishes, but Wilbur knows he might not hear it.

That’s alright.

A seemingly small sacrifice for what’s about to happen.

_1_

His hand is on the button when he hears the voice, and the symphony slams to a fitting halt.

“What are you doing?” 

Philza’s just standing there. How did he get here? How did he know? How did he find him? 

How did he not notice?

“Phil...” He closes his eyes.

“ _What_ are you doing?” His voice is resignation, and Wilbur feels some part of his soul break away.

_He_ was never supposed to be a part of this. Was never even supposed to be here.

Wilbur hums reassurance to himself. It’s ok. He can work with this.

It’s just a matter of time.

“Look, Phil, I was just telling myself, that L’Manberg was a beautiful, blooming thing.” His father’s eyes are growing more wary by the second, “But it’s not what we left it as. It’s not there anymore.” 

The man’s face brightens. “It is, though, Wilbur. You just won it back!”

Hysteria bubbles in his throat. It’s overwhelming,  choking , and then he slams his hand onto the stone beside the button.

Philza flinches at the placement.

“Damn it Phil, you don’t know how many times I’ve been here! How many times I’ve been stopped!”

Wilbur regards his father. His family. The one person he could still trust, whose face was covered in dawning horror. He clicks his tongue, slow, like reprimanding a child. “There’s a saying around here.”

He glances to the walls, scribbled with madness. This room feels more like home in that moment than Pogtopia ever did.

“By a traitor. I don’t know of you’ve ever heard of him— Eret?”

Philza stares. His wings flutter nervously for a moment.

Wilbur turns back to the button. Wonders if he’ll ever get to see past this stone wall again.

“ _It was never meant to be._ ”

A soft click, setting everything right.

And far beneath their feet, smeared redstone jolts to life, sparks fly, and eleven and a half stacks of dynamite scream into the sky.

It’s a visceral kind of happiness that floods his heart when the world stops moving.

There are some cheers. Cries. Wilbur doesn’t hear any of it.

Wilbur Soot just hears, cold ringing, and blessed silence. His great, unfinished symphony, forever unfinished.

And decimated, mangled land, scarring his nation. It’s beautiful.

Philza is crying. 

Suddenly, Wilbur feels a bout of striking guilt, because he may be an arsonist and a madman, but he made his father cry.

He tugs one hand up to run through his hair, and the earbuds, crack against the ground; in irony, never finish the concerto.

Sadness hits him sharp. “Just kill me, Philza.”

His father blinks. Takes a step back.

“ _What?_ ” He’d always been too soft for what was needed.

Wilbur grins at the row of figures standing above the crater.  _They don’t look happy, though_.  He ticks his head to the side . _It might take them a while, they could still be in shock._

“Look. They all want you to.”

A beat, and then, “Are you proud of me?”

And it breaks Philza’s heart, because he sounds like the boy again.

The little boy who used to hide flowers in his brother’s hair when he was sleeping, the little boy who used to snap his guitar strings and cry when they cut his hands.

The little boy that grew up in fields and valleys of peace, and once told him,  _Someday, I’ll make a home just like ours, dad._

The little boy who loved everything.

So he smiles through his tears.

He says, “You’re my son,” because though it’s not an answer, they both know what it means.

And he hugs him, tight, unflinching, and ignores the fistful of feathers that Wilbur clutches like he’s dying. He watches as his son collapses against the wall.

Clutches his stomach to hide the blood, because he still remembers that it made Philza sick.

He topples over the edge, and drops into the crater.

His body crunches in a way that Philza knows he’ll never forget.

Wilbur opens his eyes, right before he hits the ground. Salutes, playful and mocking.

_Tubbo, you are president of a crater._

_Enjoy._

________________________________________________________________________________________________

He stands up with a yawn.

There’s a chaotic, twisted mess of dirt and stone in front of him, like a wall. It’s... familiar.

He winces, and clutches his head. That hurts.

He doesn’t even try to remember that.

So he slips underneath the wall, and treks through the forest, just listening. 

It seems to go on forever, just trees, and sky, and grass.

And then the ground slopes sharply, and he pushes aside the leaves, and just gapes.

In the valley below, is a crater. A wooden path snakes through, crossing over rivers and lakes, and there are too many towers to count. Buildings are half standing, some still intact. Around them, the illusion of a perfect kingdom.

There’s a castle in the distance...

He winces again.

That hurts too.

He looks up. There’s a lot that happened here, he knows.

He remembers friends, and enemies. Love. Hate. Betrayal. Loyalty. Kindness. Cruelty. 

Madness.

Home.

“ _Wilbur?_ ”


End file.
